


But Tonight We Dance

by JDylah_da_Kylah



Series: Phototropic [8]
Category: Starfighter Eclipse
Genre: Angst and Feels, Life-Affirming Sex, M/M, Pre-Combat, Romance, Swearing
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-09-12
Updated: 2016-09-12
Packaged: 2018-08-14 13:49:52
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,779
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/8016469
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/JDylah_da_Kylah/pseuds/JDylah_da_Kylah
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>The <em>Kepler</em> has made its way back to the Alliance's border with the Colterons, only to be given intel that six enemy ships have breached the neutral zone, the-no-man's-land, between them. Realizing that three of those ships are of the same ilk as were responsible for previous attacks on colonial transports—are responsible, in short, for Selene's traumatic past—Helios and his Navigator volunteer to be part of the team which will move to intercept them—a dangerous mission that will likely draw them directly into Colteron space.</p><p>Or: What began as a double-entendre in the training room becomes what might well be a parting gift.</p>
            </blockquote>





	But Tonight We Dance

**Author's Note:**

> I wasn't really sure where this was going when I started it, but that's usually how my stories are, so there we go. A bit of silliness (basically the first few paragraphs) turns into . . . this.
> 
> (Also, in my head, Encke meditates. No idea why. It just seems like something he might do.)
> 
> Of all the little language-bits I've thrown around (Russian and Māori), Sigyn's “Skeggjǫld! Skalmǫld! Skildir ’u [or ro] klofnir!” is the one I'm most certain of. :) "Axe-time! Sword-time! Shields are shattered!" . . . from the _Poetic Edda,_ a collection of Old Norse poetry.
> 
> The title's taken from a song of the same name by Rise Against.
> 
> Reviews, comments, suggestions, thoughts: All are welcome! I do hope you enjoy! <3

"Do you want to switch?"

It was their day off, but still Selene and Helios found themselves standing next to their assigned VR capsule. Hayden's briefing from the day before was still heavy on their shoulders: they were heading back to the border of Colteron space. Suddenly their missions would be far more than the _Derelict_ : soon the _Edifice_ would fly more than recon runs and retrievals from Europa.

Soon they'd know the enemy, not a programmer's creations, not the monsters conjured by their sleeping brains.

The need, then, to be here rather than elsewhere—than the observation deck, perhaps, to watch the wheeling stars—was not lost to them. There was reason indeed for their feet to have carried them to the training room instead.

The Fighter's suggestion, though, caught Selene off-guard. It brought to mind a different matter, one he'd been intending to bring up, but that obviously wasn't what the Fighter had in mind—unless—

_Well—there was that one time in the capsule—but—that was just—it's too cramped to really—_

"What . . . do you mean?" His eyes resolutely found the floor; if the Fighter noticed how he shivered . . .

Color flashed across Helios' face. "Ah. Uhm. Well, I don't know. I could brush up on my navigation."

And the Navigator's lustful reverie was broken.

"You might need it."

His eyes suddenly were sharp; there was no sorrow, no fear, no pity, just the _truth_ —because at the end of the day this _was_ a war, something they'd soon experience, and their own . . . their love . . . wasn't worth much against the Colterons, offensively, except that perhaps it made them better soldiers. And well enough he knew the agony of almost losing not only his teammate but his beloved; well enough he knew the truth of it from Praxis . . .

Helios whirled on his heel, jaw set.

"Don't ever fucking say that to me. _Ever_."

"Afon—"

The Fighter shook his head, his shoulders tense, the muscles clenched all down his arm and gathered there into the balled-up and white-knuckled fist. Slowly, slowly, he exhaled. "Just . . . fuck. Forget it."

"Afon." Selene slid up to him, two steps on silent feet, wrapping his arms around the taller man's solid chest, taking care to lay one hand over his beating heart. "I didn't mean to sound so callous."

 _But it's true,_ Helios couldn't help but seethe. He wasn't so much angry at his Navigator as—he didn't know—the Colterons, perhaps—though because of them, despite everything he'd lost, he'd also met his brilliant—

"Look." The lilting voice was soft. "You take my place and I'll take yours. Let's not overthink it, hm? It might even do us good. See what the other sees. Do you remember when I picked you up from Europa, when we rendezvoused with the _Kepler_? God, I was half-afraid I'd . . ."

"Fire off a missile? Heh."

"And you forgot about the landing gear—almost—but, Afon, you brought us home."

Helios shrugged, turning back around until they both faced the capsule.

"Fine. Okay. Just once."

* * *

If it hadn't been for the looming threat of the Colterons, for the subtle reality that Helios might one day have to fly the _Edifice_ alone, finding himself in the Navigator's chair, wrapped up in the harness, would have been . . . well. Fun.

But trying to skivvy the Starfighter through a swarm of enemy ships while lining up a shot or two for the Navigator in the Fighter's niche was hell, and almost immediately he regretted having suggested something so stupid in the first place. Never had either of them done so poorly in a sim, though Helios was tempted to take the greater of their faults: the simulated _Edifice_ seemed to fight him in a way the real ship never had.

Selene, for his part, found himself trying not to study the enemy's formations, to focus only on the radar, to find a ship in weapons-range . . . but his hands often left the weapons-throttle to whisk across the Navigator's console—which, of course, wasn't there.

* * *

When the capsule shuddered under a barrage of simulated fire, when Helios cursed over the headset that they'd lost critical structural integrity, the Navigator leaned back into the Fighter's chair, hands folded in his lap, watching the screen explode into the brightest light.

* * *

Helios sat still for a moment; nestled back, facing the engines, he'd seen nothing, none of that light, just the final stuttering burst of the ship's mechanic heart before they caught fire and the simulated _Edifice_ —

Into the silence of their ragged breathing he spat a single word across the headsets:

" _Fuck_!"

Selene shook his head. "Bad idea?"

A moment, just a moment, when he wasn't sure what the Fighter would say next, when the static air was his only answer. He half-expected to hear a string of Russian expletives—

"Get back here. Right now."

Selene, still giddy from adrenaline, struggled not to laugh even as some instinct twisted in his gut.

"Afon, we could barely fit up _here_ —"

"Just fucking _do_ it, would you?"

The Navigator paused in slipping loose from the restraints. Afon had never, not once, spoken to him like that. He'd been angry, of course—they still had their arguments—but there was an underlying current in those words, a mortal need, that Selene had never heard before. And he realized then that his squeezing into the same niche as his Fighter would really have nothing to do with carnality—that his half-hearted joke had been the worst thing he could say—

* * *

Helios was shaking, was fighting sickness, and found that he could only breathe when Selene managed—somehow—to free him from the harness and crawl into his lap. His arms instinctively wrapped around the Navigator, harder perhaps than they should have; Selene relaxed into the vice-like grip, troubled at the rapid-fire pounding of the Fighter's heart.

"I won't lose you," came the haggard whisper. "I won't ever—God, Selene, I swear—"

Selene worriedly pulled back enough to look his Afon in the eyes.

"Shh. It's just a sim."

"It was . . . my idea . . . and my fault. Selene . . ."

What he could never say—what he would never tell another soul—was that the sim had solidified something he'd almost intuitively known, ever since . . . ever since he and Selene had . . . he wasn't even sure if there _was_ such a definite moment . . .

But he'd rather die than be left alive without Selene—

And no Fighter worth their salt—no matter how brilliant was their Navigator—should ever say as much.

* * *

"You're okay?"

Selene lifted his head to kiss the Fighter's cheek. Helios' heart had slowed; the iron arms about his ribs had eventually loosened, had grown lax; he did not tremble so much now.

"Yeah. I'm fine, Selene. But I don't belong back here."

"Shh. I know. I know."

Those cool, cool lips found his and Helios closed his eyes. The Navigator's closeness, his warmth, his weight, pulled at him—but the simulated loss had been too real—he needed something first, far more than even—

"One more run, Selene. Just one. Stay here."

"Always, Afon."

* * *

Disentangling themselves proved a difficult maneuver; Helios guiltily felt the Navigator's slightly-labored breath, the hardness pressed against his thigh, and mentally promised to make it up to him. Not that he didn't want it—but—

Back in the Fighter's chair, the restraints readjusted, his hands called up the main console screen, the sim-selection table. The system was gradated to advance Fighter/Navigator teams only when they'd successfully completed the level before three times, in the hopes of preventing lucky flukes; they'd progressed well but certainly were far from finished with whatever the Alliance meant to put them through—in simulacrum, anyway, though certainly the hope was not in flesh.

A new level had been unlocked for them earlier that week, one they'd yet to try.

"Ho, Selene. You ready?"

A soft chuckle then through static. "When you are."

* * *

"Goddamn it, what the hell are they up to now?"

Keeler's hiss stirred Encke from his meditation. "Hm?"

"It's their day off, and they're in the training room."

"That's good. We're nearly at the border . . ."

"They should take a day _off._ "

"You sound more upset than that, Keeler. Selene won't break from a round of VR sims—so what's really up?"

"Well, their first score was shit. I mean, really. Worse than that, Encke. They _died_."

". . . ah. That _is_ unusual for them—"

"It's _unheard_ of! And this wasn't anything hard. I don't understand . . ." Keeler's voice took on a subtle, desperate edge.

"Keeler." Encke rose from the floor, stood just behind the head Navigator, began slowly to loosen the braid of white-blonde hair. He rubbed at Keeler's temples for a moment before carding his fingers through the strands, before splitting them in three and braiding them all up again. "Keeler, it's more even than that. Tell me."

"It's never easy when a Fighter or Navigator loses their partner. But they do survive. The Alliance takes great care to make sure they're fit for duty, then to reassign them."

"Sure. Praxis and Ethos are doing well these days."

". . . But that won't happen with these two. Encke . . ."

Keeler turned, stilling the latter's surprisingly-deft hands.

"Encke, they won't survive without each other. You understand? That was just a sim, and—it probably scared the shit out of them. I don't know what happened down there, Encke, I really don't, but . . . it'll be real. Tomorrow, the day after . . . it'll be real and if that happens . . ."

Encke sighed into the silence. "If we lose one, we lose them both."

Keeler laid his head against the desk. "And the Alliance can't afford that."

* * *

Helios sighed, lingering a moment in the capsule before joining Selene. His steps felt light; there was a significant weight lifted from his shoulders; so their switching places had been a fucking stupid idea to begin with but at least—at least this second run (little damage, all enemies destroyed) had been enough to soothe some of his fear—

Not all of it, of course. This was war, after all, these were real ships they'd be bottled in, real enemies, real weaponry—but—

Selene's hand found his and they began to meander to the mess hall.

But just having one another, for this moment, was enough.

* * *

"All deployment personnel, report to the briefing room. Immediately."

It was Hayden over the intercom, a rarity. The mess hall suddenly fell still. Selene carefully set down his spoon, stood up; he distinctly heard Helios mutter "Ah, fuck it" and caught him hastily drinking the soup from his bowl before shoving a sandwich into the Navigator's hand.

"Afon—"

"Just eat it, quick."

They tarried in the crowd, just long enough for Selene to crumple the bread and meat into something bite-sized. Had they not just been summoned by the CO, Helios would have had to laugh—the Navigator was always proper at the table. Not now, though. Not when the Fighter didn't know what was to come, when they might soon find themselves tucked into the _Edifice_ for real. And whatever else, he didn't want Selene going hungry.

He kept the smaller man close as they joined the throng headed for the briefing room: there was tension in the faces of everyone, but the Fighters in particular could be brusque in moments such as this, when adrenaline spiked and some—some hadn't ever really left the colonies—

Keeler and Encke called quickly for attention; Hayden strode up the center aisle: half-blocking the light of the Alliance's holographic insignia, he made an imposing silhouette.

"As you know, we have been charting a course back to the borders of Alliance space, the neutral zone we share with the Colterons. Our mission is simply to patrol the area—or, more accurately, it _was_. Command picked up several enemy vessels breaching the neutral zone—they did not infringe into our territory, yet, but the gesture is alarming. That zone was no-man's-land.

"Their presence represents a breach in our . . . agreement . . . such as it were. While our relations with them have never been diplomatic, they've thus far honored the idea of this stretch of neutral space. Apparently, not so anymore.

" _Furthermore_ . . . There are three ships of unknown origin with them. Their flight patterns suggest ones we've seen before."

The room began to murmur now, to seethe, to ripple with terse voices. Hayden raised his hand; Helios saw shadows underneath his eyes and realized that the CO was, in fact, really just a man. Odd, how he'd never seemed . . .

"Afon." Selene's teeth were clenched. "I don't like this."

His hand, by instinct, found the Navigator's, thumb slowly, slowly working over the knuckle-bones, hoping to soothe the rapid, threading pulse in the delicate veins just beneath the skin.

"They are identical to those seen with the _Swift_ and the more recent attack on a colonial transport whose name the Alliance has hitherto decided to withhold."

Helios watched as Selene closed his eyes, felt the shudder seize his frame.

"Therefore, as you may guess, the Alliance has significant interest not only in deterring further Colteron encroachment but, hopefully, apprehending those responsible for at least this most recent attack. Even if the crafts are piloted by different individuals, intel believes that they're with the same organization as took out the _Swift_ as well."

The Navigator's grey eyes, watered-blue in the holographic light, slid open, found the Fighter's. _You know what's coming, Afon._

A small, small nod, because Helios knew, had always known, that if this scenario presented itself . . . if _he_ were the one confronted with such an enemy . . . It was counterintuitive, perhaps, because such a mission seemed unlikely to succeed—and so tore against the survivalist thread that bound most Fighters together—but some things—some things you had to do, regardless.

_Selene—I understand._

"Be aware that this is not something the Alliance has decided lightly.

"In the congruent verdicts of Mother and Command, for a mission which poses serious risk, which will likely lead to engagement in Colteron space . . . to seek justice for those innocent lives lost . . . I ask for volunteers."

Almost before Hayden had finished speaking, Selene and Helios were the first to stand.

* * *

Praxis, Ethos—Bjorn, Sigyn . . . Helios, Selene made six. Six to tangle with three rogue ships and three of the Colterons'.

The _Kepler_ would reach the border early; the teams were expected to be at their ships at 03:00.

There was little to do when the CO finally dismissed them. The room swam about them like a living sea, bodies pressing up to them, hands on their shoulders—Cain even gave Selene a strange, strange look that Helios couldn't quite pin down. But soon they were alone, sans Keeler and Encke, and the other four-of-six.

"We're proud of you," Encke murmured, shaking each of them by hand. "We are."

Even Keeler managed a small smile.

Sigyn's eyes were strangely bright; he clasped his Fighter's hand and looked directly at Selene. "Skeggjǫld! Skalmǫld! Skildir 'u klofnir!"

To everyone's immense surprise, Selene, Praxis and Ethos all began to laugh—not in jest, surely, but because they _understood_. The words were guttural, were rough, were not meant for such a throat as the little Navigator's—though Helios realized instinctively that they were a battle-cry.

* * *

 Selene, in fact, kept murmuring those words as they made their way back to their bunk. They'd stopped by the mess hall to grab a second helping of supper beforehand—it would be an early night and both knew they wouldn't have the stomach for anything come morning—and now there was nothing between them and 03:00 but time.

There'd be no sleep, of that Helios was sure.

"What's that even mean?" he asked, dropping against the desk, leaning back into the wall.

"Funny that Sigyn should say it." Selene offered a small smile, wandering the room in a way that left the Fighter nervous. "It's from an ancient bit of Old Norse poetry. Funny that Praxis knows it, too."

_Something in his voice . . ._

"Selene?"

The Navigator shook his head. _He . . . if he doesn't know . . . I can't tell him. The month he was gone . . . the time with Ethos and Praxis . . . Praxis—everything you've done for me—thank you—thank you—and sweet, sweet Ethos_ _—_

_(Please, don't let us lose you two tomorrow—)_

_If it were just the Colterons . . . but it isn't. But it isn't._

"What does it mean?"

But the words were stuck in his throat and Selene couldn't answer, couldn't tell; it was too precious a thing, in its own way, that only the four of them had understood.

* * *

 "Shit—Selene, you're cold."

They'd sat at the desk for a while, saying nothing, until the silence became too heavy—because mortality was heavy—because it might be their last night—

The Navigator was shivering, his hands were ice.

"I'm fine, Afon."

"Bullshit. Don't ever lie to me."

But the words were soft, were strung along the same melody as Helios had once hummed to him, a Russian lullaby. The Fighter stood up, stepped closer, knelt to wrap his arms around that slender frame, holding him, swaying in a gentle cadence, hoping the heat of his body would carry.

To his surprise Selene's shoulders caught in a silent laugh. "Don't you remember your training, Fighter?"

"What?"

"The fastest way to transfer body heat is through skin-to-skin contact."

"You are . . . _such_ a . . ." Helios fumbled for something stronger than the Anglic "geek" in Russian, couldn't find it. "Ngh."

The Navigator's cheek was soft, was smooth against his own as his fingers began to play havoc with the Fighter's coat, his shirt—as those lithe fingers began their ritualistic tracing of the scars across his skin. "But you know I'm right."

* * *

Helios had expected it to be quick, because his blood sang, because adrenaline threatened to overcome arousal whenever he had a few seconds' worth of time to consider anything except Selene. He didn't mean for his mind to swerve into that direction, into the darkness hurtling towards a dawnless day, but there it was.

He couldn't _help it._

The Navigator's hands were patient, always, running along his body, stroking him, cajoling him and coaxing. It was pleasant, in its own way: Selene certainly didn't want to rush this. No, they wouldn't be sleeping anyhow, and if this was indeed their final night, there wasn't anything he'd rather do than savor every moment with his Afon.

And when it became clear that the Fighter needed something else, _something_ because the beast that screamed for survival in his head couldn't abide being the passive one, Selene leaned close to brush aside a stray tuft of hair and whisper:

"Do you want to switch?"

A slow intake of breath—perhaps he was reminded of the disaster that had been the VR sim.

"Afon. Just listen to me, hear this . . . I've been thinking about it . . . for a long time. I've wanted to feel you . . . since . . . I first really saw you. Do you see?" In tandem with the sway of his words Selene began to rock against his Fighter, a delicate motion that left the latter breathless—

And then the Navigator shifted, wrapped his arms around Helios' chest, pulled him over and around until their positions were reversed, until he could wrap slender legs around those hips which now quivered to stay steady.

"I want you," Selene whispered. "I need you. I love you."

"Are you sure?"

An olive hand reached back, reached overhead, fumbling for the bedside drawer.

Helios shivered as the jar—the only jar they'd ever had, now nearly empty—was slipped against his palm. Selene took care to mold his fingers around the curve of it, until the Fighter held it, until there was no other answer except those grey, grey eyes, staring into his: the softest, sweetest _yes_ that he had ever known.

* * *

"I love you" became the Navigator's chant, became his prayer against the first discomfort, became his cry when he still had mind enough for words, before the words were gone because he'd tilted his hips just _so_ and, oh, he'd never known it could be like _that_ —with the Fighter's hand around him, steady in its strokes, and the time-old motion of their coupled selves, and Afon's moaning in his ear—and the sudden shudder and the _heat_ of him—

* * *

Helios, for his part, never realized there was such power buried in Selene's slender limbs as when those strong, strong legs wrapped around his hips and tried to pull him even deeper—as when the Navigator, with a drawn-out cry, clung to him in the end.

* * *

Only then, when they were lulled into a half-doze, tempered always with the fear of what was on the morrow, did they realize that it was the first time, amidst the _Kepler_ 's halogen glare, that they'd made love in the light.

* * *

A soft alarm awoke them: it might, once, have echoed birdsong.

Neither Selene nor Helios had really slept, not properly, not with the swift-deep-darkness to lay thick upon their eyes: deeper darkness still might blind them yet, and it seemed a waste of time to get a foretaste.

The shower was itself a ritual: caught between exhaustion and hyper-lucidity, they slipped into a stall together, loathe to part: they washed each other and kissed away the languid water-drops and tasted of the other—the same raw liquid heat and life as had been their undoing in the night. The prospect of what lay ahead stripped away any misgivings: now nothing was not sacred, even that which they'd never felt the need to do before.

But soon came Praxis and Ethos, Bjorn and Sigyn; huddled together in the shower-stalls or wrapped in steam or towels, they all looked at one another, unashamed yet terrified: if they were too proud to admit it, neither were they foolish enough to try and conceal it.

* * *

The hangar was dark. Hayden awaited them, as did Keeler, Encke.

"No new instructions, men. Approach them. Isolate the three responsible for the attacks; if the Colterons cross into Alliance space, destroy them. Otherwise, do not fire unless you are fired on. Are there any questions."

—But no room given them to answer, and they dispersed across the hangar: pairs of white- and black-clad men, jaws set, hearts pounding. Two walked hand-in-hand, right until they stood before their ship, before one swung up onto a wing and dropped into the Fighter's niche, while the other took a dancing step across the hull, disappearing into the Navigator's womb, isolated from the stars, the lights, the silent-noise, all to fixate on the console-screens and engines: single-minded in the hope not so much of retribution now as just to bring them home.


End file.
